


The Sun, The Heat

by keyflight790



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Draco is Thirsty, Heat Stroke, M/M, Showers, working
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-22
Updated: 2019-04-22
Packaged: 2019-10-16 02:56:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,428
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17541338
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/keyflight790/pseuds/keyflight790
Summary: Draco isn't used to hard work out in the fields, and get's pretty dehydrated. Luckily, Neville is there to quench his thirst.





	The Sun, The Heat

**Author's Note:**

  * For [jadztone](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jadztone/gifts).



> Written for @dreville on tumblr, who sent me an amazing prompt list! Hopefully you enjoy reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it! Thanks to @jeldenil for the betawork! I appreciate you so much!

The sun is scorching on his back, the bland heat a constant reminder that this a punishment, a deed, an exoneration. That this afternoon, hunched over destroyed plants is in tribute to past destruction, to bad choices. To the chance to grow anew from the scorched earth.

He tries not to think about the fiery heat in the same way that he still dreams of the Fiendfyre, swallowing his friend along with his will to live. He tries not to think about the months after, the trial, the raw heat of anger from the Wizarding community, from his classmates, from his friends.

He tries not to think about one classmate, who stands just yards away, shirtless, back glistening with sweat from the afternoon sun, muscles ripped from carrying bags of soil and pots and rocks. One classmate who volunteered to ‘help’ Draco with his community service, restoring the greenhouses; one classmate who might actually be closer to a friend than an enemy after days tilling the soil, hands caked with wet dirt.

He tries, instead, to focus on the green leaves that emerge from black, creating new hope, new life. Redemption in the form of tiny magical plants.

“Doin’ alright there, Draco?” Neville asks, a friendly sign of concern, as Draco once again is wearing too many layers for the too hot summer air. His black long-sleeve t-shirt feels heavy on his skin, but not as heavy as what it’s hiding so he decides to keep it on no matter how uncomfortable he feels.

“’m fine,” he answers back non-committedly, knowing that he is very well not fine, has not been fine for quite a while and might never be fine again, but that isn’t quite the question. Moreso, will he faint in the next five minutes due to heat exhaustion, and, despite his once-again restless sleep the night before and the sweat pooling in his lower back, Draco is confident that he will not drop in this field.

Neville simply shrugs, pulling a damp cloth tighter around his neck, the pale blue only showcasing how tan his skin is, how sun-kissed, how Neville truly transformed into a miraculous specimen of a man.

Draco’s thirsty. If only it would be so easy as an Aguamenti to squelch what he wants. Instead, he pulls his wand out of his pocket and casts, filling a cup to the brim with luke-warm water. He downs half before squatting back onto the ground. He trades the cup for a small shovel, and continues his replanting once more.

It’s been three weeks since the pair of them began the reparations of this specific greenhouse, and Draco estimated at least one more before they’d be able to consider the project finished. Completion would only lead them to the next greenhouse, however, and Draco found the entire summer daunting, trying to ready the school for the upcoming term.

And maybe it’s that thought, that summer will end and the torturous heat from the sun will be replaced with torture from the student body, or maybe it’s the half glass of water he still hasn’t drank, but Draco suddenly feels goosebumps riding up his arms, a chill trying to reach his bones. After a moment, everything goes black.

It was the feeling of shaking that wakes him from his forced slumber, and with a start, Draco realizes he is against someone’s bare chest. They are running, fast, and the wind is whipping his hair off his sweat-drenched forehead, and his legs are bouncing up and down on someone’s arm, his head supported by the other.

“Hold on,” he hears Neville’s soothing voice, and yes, it’s Neville he’s tucked against, Neville who’s carrying him like a baby, as if he weighed little more than a bundle of mulch. Neville, who is still half-naked and hot and hard along his side as he hurries them towards the castle.

When they breach the entrance, Draco assumes Neville will right him, allowing Draco to head towards his dormitory, take a quick break before they go at it again. Instead, ever the hero, he carries Draco to the Gryffindor tower, to the shared showers.

“Strip,” Neville says, his voice panting slightly from their unexpected jog, from the summer sweltering heat, from lugging Draco all the way to the tower. The word isn’t a question, but more of a command, and Draco wants to listen.

Instead he stands, knees wobbly, bracing himself on the sink. He tucks the sleeves of his shirt into the palm of his hands, refusing to remove the garment. No matter how much he wants to obey. No matter how much he wants the sweet feel of cold water against his skin.

Neville is busying himself with the faucets, running his hand under the steady stream, checking the temperature and the pressure. When he turns back, he growls, seeing a fully-clothed and fully still-dehydrated Draco.

“Strip,” he says again, and it’s clear in his tone and his body language that this request will only be requested one more time, and if it is not followed, it will be forced instead.

Draco hesitates, beginning with his belt. The sound of leather sliding through loops, metal crashing to the floor. His lips are drawn in a thin line as he pulls at the button, releasing it from its hole, pushing his dirt-grimed trousers to the floor.

His fingers are shaking when they dip into the top of his pants, pulling at the elastic but not yanking them down to join the rest of the fabric on the floor.

“C’mon Malfoy, I’ve see a dick before, I doubt you have anything special,” Neville tries to smile but he knows how dangerous heat exhaustion could be, how every moment not spent cooling down Draco’s internal temperature can be detrimental to his health and his magic.

“It’s not that,” Draco tries to sneer back, but he doesn’t quite have the energy, and besides, it’s a little that. Feeling Neville’s bare, hardened chest along his side has awakened some primal need inside of him, one that doesn’t seem as tired. But it’s really just one more piece of black fabric left before the inevitable.

He pulls his pants down with a grimace, feeling the silk fabric slide against his slightly-hardened cock, and lets it drop around his ankles. He tries to make a run for the open shower stall, hoping Neville will let him just _get in there already_ , shirt and all, and not make him do this.

But he does. Of course he does. Because Neville has no idea what he’s hiding under his sleeve.

It’s not as if Neville doesn’t know that Draco was part of the whole thing, but seeing it, etched in black against his pale skin, is quite different. Evidence, confirmation.

“I just don’t-“ Draco starts, knowing that his efforts are useless, that everything has been useless since that day in the Manor when his father held him to the chair and let, no, enthusiastically allowed, the Dark Lord to mark him as one of his own.

“Whatever it is, I don’t give a shit,” Neville’s voice echoes off the porcelain walls. “Now get in the shower.”

Draco complies, slinging himself, shirt and all, under the cool stream. The water is delicious, coursing over his grimy hair, his burnt forehead, his hot, red cheeks. He can feel the stream soothing his thighs, the cold working its way under his skin, pooling around his bare toes.

His shirt feels stifling, as if it’s choking him with the heavy weight, and Draco itches to take it off. He wants to feel the cool chill on his reddened shoulders, on the slope of his spine, where the sweat has pooled in his lower back. He wants to feel the sweet drops the water, the entirety of him.

And so, with a quick glance at Neville, he rips off the fabric and exposes his pale chest, his thin arms. His Dark Mark.

He expected a sharp gasp, or a throttled yell, or maybe even a hand around his neck, but instead, Neville hands him a bottle of shampoo and a bar of soap, and after a few minutes, a fluffy towel.

He feels cleansed, renewed. Absolved.

Neville checks his forehead and his pulse, brings him a fresh set of clothes. Owls to McGonnagal that they’re calling it quits for the day. He Accios two butterbeers. They click the bottles in shared silence.

And Draco thinks with a hidden smile that maybe, just maybe, the rest of summer won’t be that bad after all.


End file.
